Anyway, after I had watched the actors rehearse for hours on end, my legs grew restless. Without realizing it, I found myself bouncing in my seat, itching to jump in.
I can still do more.
I want to do more.
…
I gazed wistfully at the actors crossing the rehearsal studio, back and forth. Their lines became a lullaby for me, and before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.
“Siwoo, how’s the play coming along?”
It was a day off from practice. If it had been up to me, I would have rehearsed every single night, but this body simply couldn’t manage that. At times, if I let my guard down while reciting lines, my eyelids would immediately grow heavy.
Yes, to give a better performance, I also needed proper rest.
During this break, I still held the TV remote as usual. I had been going to the theater almost daily, leaving me with little time to watch television. That day, I was catching up on the dramas I had missed when Mom sat beside me and asked:
“Mhm. It’s fun,” I replied.
“Really? I wonder what you’ve been doing there?” she continued.
“See, if I said my line this way, then the other actor did it like that?” I explained.
“My goodness, Siwoo, that sounds amazing! And then?” Mom asked.
She seemed a bit surprised that I was talking so enthusiastically, hardly even paying attention to the TV. But she prodded me to go on.
“And then… if that big light was turned on, I ran over there, and the light chased after me!” I added.
“Really? That’s kind of like the moon,” she said.
“Mhm!”
The drama scenes I had missed played on the TV in front of me, but chatting with Mom was far more entertaining. She looked reassured every time I spoke; her face lit up so much that I couldn’t help enjoying it. It felt different from the excitement I had once felt as “Golden Mask” when fans were in awe of my slightest gesture, yet it gave me another kind of happiness:
A parent’s affection and attention—something I had never experienced in my past life while acting.
“That’s right, Mom, look at this,” I said.
I went into my room and brought out the envelope Director Gang Yong-hwi had given me that day.
“What’s this?” Mom wondered.
She opened the envelope and her expression turned to surprise.
“Wow, so the performance date is already set?” she exclaimed.
“Really?” Dad asked, having just finished washing up. He came over to the sofa after hearing Mom’s exclamation.
“Look—Siwoo brought home some tickets,” Mom said.
“Mhm! Mom, Dad, you’ll come, right?” I asked.
“Of course we will,” Mom replied.
“It’s next week, huh? Honey, maybe you could film it with a camera? It’s been a while since you used one,” Mom suggested.
“Ah, I can’t remember the last time I picked up a camera,” Dad responded.
“Mhm?” I murmured.
‘Put down the camera,’ she had said. Yet she took pictures of me at least a dozen times a day with her phone. What was that about?
“Siwoo, your mom used to be a documentary director,” Dad explained. “Remember how she’s always filming you on her phone? She could record you so much more professionally if—oof,” he started to say, but Mom cut him off.
“Honestly, you’ll say anything in front of the kid,” she scolded.
“What? It’s not like it’s a big secret,” he protested.
Documentary? Another word I planned to look up. Or maybe I would quietly ask Uncle about it later. Still, something felt odd. The way Mom looked reminded me of how I felt whenever I recalled my old acting memories… but I wasn’t sure why.
I paused, then realized I needed to tell them something:
“No good. At the theater, filming is forbidden,” I stated firmly.
I understood the posted signs in the venue’s final rehearsals on the actual stage. They said, [No Recording During Performances], and there was an English version too, so it was clear enough to me.
Because I protested so strongly, Mom and Dad both looked disappointed.
“Yeah, you’re right… It’s a shame we can’t record your very first performance,” Mom sighed.
“Exactly. We’ll just have to watch you carefully, right?” Dad agreed.
“Sure. I’ll memorize every bit of how well Siwoo does,” Mom said.
“Mhm!” I answered.
She scooped me into a tight hug. I snuggled into her arms, answering with enthusiasm. It was remarkable—this me actually liked being in a parent’s embrace. I had never imagined, in my old life, that parents might give me so much love.
“All right, that does it! On that day, I’ll close the chicken shop early and head to the theater!” Dad declared.
“You weren’t planning to?” Mom teased.
“Honey… This was a big commitment for me,” he muttered.
“Siwoo, your dad’s making a fuss. Tell him you’re grateful,” Mom joked.
“Thank you so much!” I said with a laugh.
Dad beamed at my bright voice and pulled both Mom and me into a big hug.
“Kyah!”
I burst into laughter for the first time in a while, and my parents smiled widely, too.
On one sunny day in May, the first performance day finally arrived.
Indeed, the greenroom in this era—now called the backstage—was much cleaner than it had been 400 years earlier. With my hands behind my back, I took a stroll around the white-toned space. Mirrors lined with bright bulbs filled one wall, and the actors were busy putting on finishing touches. Each person stayed quiet, finalizing everything.
As in the past, there was a risk that any noise from here might carry straight to the audience. This space was so close to the stage, after all. Though the setting looked different, the atmosphere felt the same as the greenrooms of my old days.
Yes, that unique tension before a show. It never changed.
I was still taking a peek around the greenroom when Uncle—now done with his simple makeup—came over. Because I didn’t need heavy makeup, only a costume, I had finished getting ready much earlier.
“S-Si-siwooo, want me to grab… g-get you a drink or something? A-aren’t you n-nervous…?” he stuttered.
Shhh!
I put a finger to my lips and gestured that he should hush. We didn’t want the entering audience members to overhear us.
“Hmm,” I murmured, squinting at him. He seemed so tense that I worried how he would handle his few lines. Leaning in quietly, I whispered:
“There, the stage. Can I take a peek?”
“Huh? Y-you want to see the stage?” he asked.
I nodded toward the stage, and Uncle hesitated for a moment before agreeing. He picked me up so I could see better, and we moved to the tiny gap that let me peer out.
The seats were already half full.
“Wow, i-it’s only opening night, but look how many people are here. Probably half of them are Seonwoo’s fans,” Uncle whispered, his voice small.
I nodded in acknowledgment. Many of Kim Seonwoo’s fans were women, but there were also a surprising number of men. Even though he had debuted only recently, his consistent appearances and strong talent had built him a following.
It reminded me even more of my time as “Golden Mask,” when over half the audience came specifically to see me. Even now, I couldn’t forget how brightly those eyes shone from the seats—how they fixated on every small motion, every sigh I made.
But because of my flashy mask, they had only known me as “Golden Mask,” not “Noah Battenberg.” Each time I slipped into the darkness after a performance, leaving behind those fans who yearned for “Golden Mask,” I had to endure a burning thirst on my way back to the castle. I could never show them my real face; revealing my identity would have meant the end of my acting.
“Whew,” I sighed.
“Are you nervous, Siwoo? Let’s head back,” Uncle suggested softly.
He gave a small smile and carried me into the greenroom again.
“How much time is left?” I asked.
Uncle checked the clock on the wall.
“About fifteen minutes, I guess? Can’t believe it’s almost starting… Ugh, my stomach hurts,” he groaned.
I regretted asking. Uncle was so tense that he finally left me to dart into the bathroom.
Very soon… I would stand before the audience as Han Siwoo, with my face uncovered.
Slap.
I lightly smacked both cheeks with my tiny hands, hoping to psych myself up. The sound made a few actors glance my way.
“Siwoo, what’re you doing?” one asked.
“You nervous? Come sit here,” another offered.
“Mhm,” I murmured.
Pretending not to hear them, I walked over and sat down. How long had it been since I last set foot onstage? It would be a lie to say I felt no nerves at all. With such a small body, my heartbeat pounded especially loudly. Staring at the closed curtain, I felt as if my heart might burst out of my chest.
Yet this wasn’t fear.
I had spent ten years trapped in the Duke’s tower, longing and hoping for the stage. Now that moment arrived. What phrase would Shakespeare have chosen for my emotions right now? This indescribable thrill coursing through me. At that moment, I only wanted to unleash my excitement onstage and ease this tension, even a little.
Tap-tap.
“Tsk…”
A soft orange glow bathed the stage, like the setting sun. Under the sunset-like lighting, Yeong-soo walked slowly forward.
“You’d think they know everything when they don’t…”
Standing alone at stage left, Yeong-soo (Han Siwoo) muttered resentfully, crossing toward stage right under that warm light.
He headed for a green metal door.
“They’re bad people. Those uncles are mean… They don’t know anything about Dad. Tsk,” he said.
Tears gathered in Yeong-soo’s eyes, threatening to spill over any second. But he never let them fall. He simply continued complaining about the local residents who had insulted his father.
Tap.
Reaching center stage, he lifted his tearful eyes skyward.
Sniff, sniff.
After swallowing back the sob building in his throat, Yeong-soo trudged again toward the metal door.
“Just because they’re adults doesn’t mean they’re right all the time! Dad didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t they say real criminals always go home eventually? Huh… sniff…”
He mumbled on and on, finally failing to hold back his rising tears.
“Hwaaa… Dad… Where did you go? Sniff, I told you not to go…”
At last, Yeong-soo let out his frustration toward his father and burst into tears.
Clank.
At the rusty green gate, he clung to the door, calling for Dad:
“Dad, where are you…? Waaah…”
Strangely, even though his voice was muddled by sobs, every syllable lodged itself firmly in everyone’s ears. As Yeong-soo looked around blindly for his father, the audience felt as though he were truly scanning for someone, his face twisted in tears, embodying a five-year-old child in every way.
But even as the lighting dimmed and night fell, the father he sought never appeared.
“Hic… sniff… huff,” he panted.
Exhausted from crying, Yeong-soo finally sank to the ground in front of the gate. A pin light illuminated the tears on his face. Then, as that last spotlight gradually faded, total darkness took over the stage.
Blackout.
Darkness descended momentarily.
From the audience, soft sobs scattered through the silence.
A child who looked no older than four or five had appeared onstage. Some spectators had gasped, seeing someone so young in a live theater show—rather than a film set or a drama shoot. It was uncommon to feature such a small child actor in real-time theater.
Yet their worries vanished immediately. In scolding the neighbors who insulted his father, then desperately searching for Dad, Yeong-soo delivered a perfect performance that captured every heart.
Many were moved, though someone else was caught up in a different surge of emotions: Siwoo’s own parents, who had come at his invitation. The moment their son, transformed into Yeong-soo, set foot on the stage, tears welled in their eyes. And as Yeong-soo reached the part where he cried inconsolably, his mother wept almost nonstop.
His father, startled by his wife’s uncharacteristic tears (she normally never cried at movies), passed tissues to her while glancing at the stage, where the lights were slowly rising again.
That’s my boy…
He, too, pulled out a tissue, dabbing at the corners of his eyes.
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